Its always the tomatos, with the candle stick, in the library...

I really don't know why I keep eating tomatoes. Raw tomatoes. The first thing people warn you about when you move to any developing country is to avoid eating raw foods and drinking the tap water. Since, I'm a rebellious last child with a serious immortality complex; I've always ignored the latter but generally stick with the no-salad rule. The one exception is tomatoes. If I see them anywhere, by a roadside shack or the market where they are neatly piled up on the ground... I try to figure out a way to 'sanitize' and eat them. hmm..sanitize you say. yes. very scientific methods. If at home wash it with antibacterial soap, soak it in water for 10 min or less if they look super happy..etc. But here's where the real patent pending technology comes in...if you are out and you see a plate of sumptuous looking mozzarella and tomatoes...you don’t shy away defeated, you ask for , ta da, a jar of vinegar. hmm can whatever is in there survive being drowned in strong vinegar is the logic. Well, without fail, there's always some heathen of a microorganism that survives and gets me sick. Like what happened last night. I am going to try and blame everything else I ate but deep down, I know and you know who it is.

Hello World, can you hear me?

This time last year I was like all other denizens of Wall Street. Lamenting our fate, griping about our bonus (I know I know, entitled bastards), relieved our respective firms survived the turmoil and trying to explain to friends and family the difference between a CDO and a CDS. (no grandma it really has nothing to do with CDs and rap music)

While last year was about grey suits, pink shirts, depression and Bloomberg screens, this year aint. I have been sitting on my balcony wearing a t-shirt, sipping some ketepa tea and drafting my resignation letter all morning. Did I mention it is 80 degrees with loads of sunshine? In January! I made the call to my boss and am following it up with a formal emailed resignation. I’ve got my two guys, one 35 , one 19 months, backing me up and there’s not a doubt in my mind that I’ll enjoy life in Kenya. Really. No, I’m not nervous. Ehm…seriously. I’m just shaking because of…oh whatever.

This here is my journal , not sure if anyone will read it, but hey, if you’ve got a few minutes to waste every day, you can join me as I try to navigate a new life, new town, new continent without any analysts push around and learn how to say diapers in Swahili (stat! that Costco stash of Huggies is running out).